


Trust

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Flashfic Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 21:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14387694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: “Do you trust me, Mata Hari?”The voice on the telephone is low, raspy; she recognises it, cannot put her finger on the source.One of Phryne's dashing heroes returns, in need of assistance. For the flashfic challenge.





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had signed up for the third heat, only to realise I may or may not be able to make it. So I decided to do the second heat instead. BIG mistake. From the prompts: telephone, intricate, dialogue: ”Do you trust me?”

“Do you trust me, Mata Hari?”

The voice on the telephone is low, raspy; she recognises it, though she cannot put her finger on the source. It is intriguing, and she wants to say yes--even if she would not trust the caller, this is a curiosity, a mystery to solve. But she is more cautious than she once was, more determined to think before leaping so she has longer to live.

“Should I?” she challenges.

“I saved your life once.”

“So have many people. I try to return the favour.”

“Then I ask again, do you trust me?”

“I don’t trust people I don’t know,” she says firmly.

There is a sigh on the other end of the line. “Belgium. 1916.”

The voice finds a name, presumed dead long ago.

“Yes.”

*

She watches Jack sleep, wonders if he noticed her insistence at spending the night at his house. His little cottage is closer to the meetup point, and she is less likely to be followed from here. But it is a selfish choice, however practical, and waiting in the silence and dark all she can do is question her choices.

An intelligence agent Phryne had aided one evening, bluffing her way through three meetings with German troops to get him where he’d needed to be. It had been an intricate assignment, but it had also been away--however briefly--from the screaming and the mud and the oppressive terror; she hadn’t thought twice about taking it, and in its aftermath never doubted her decision.

But now it is time to go. She kisses Jack’s cheek, stubble beneath her lips grounding her; she can barely manage to pull away. She knows nothing of what lays ahead of her, just a debt to repay and a friend to protect and a hope the price is not too high.    

She is dressed and almost gone when Jack awakes, voice raspy.

“Are you leaving?”

“I have to,” she says.

“Why? Did I--”

She can’t involve him, cannot risk the safety of everyone involved.

“Do you trust me?”

She is proud of the way her voice doesn’t tremble, even though she has gone cold at the question.

“Yes.”

She strides across the room once more, to kiss him and press her spare pistol into his hands--there is always a risk, and in some ways she is cautious. She sees the questions in his eyes, the need for answers and promises that she cannot make, but he simply kisses her once more and lets her go.

*

Seventy-two hours she arrives back at the cottage. Her hair is singed and her clothes are torn, but neither detail touches her. She is numbed, shocked, betrayed. Grieving. She is accustomed to winning, had long ago learnt to make life stack the decks in her favour.

She had never stood a chance, and now there’s blood on her hands.

The wood of Jack’s door is painted a brilliant deep green, earthy and warm and far from the crimson of blood and fire, the black of soot, the brown of mud; she knocks twice and wonders whether she should just run instead.

It opens. He takes her in with a single glance and steps aside. Runs her a bath, makes tea and sandwiches, respects her need for silence; she’s wrapped in one of his robes, soft and enormous, when she rejoins him in the parlour.

She opens her mouth to explain, but the words are heavy and his expression is warmth and safety and home; suddenly she wants nothing more than to touch him, let her body say what she cannot. She pushes him onto the chaise, straddles his lap, kissed him even as her hands wander. His lips are soft, his hands steadying her even though he does not know why she needs it; it is the sigh as she sinks onto his cock that is her undoing, a torrential flood of tears as she buries her face against his neck and sobs for old losses and new ones.

Eventually she pulls away, chest heaving, knowing she must find the words to explain; it is not easy.

“You don’t have to,” he says, sensing her conflict; he means it, she knows--he is curious and concerned, but he would never demand answers she was unwilling to give.

“I want to,” she says, and she does; she wants to so badly that the words are burning in her chest, and they will incinerate her from the inside out if she does not.

She grasps his head with both hands, ducking her head to meet his eyes; there is one thing that she can offer in this moment, and he doesn’t have to ask. He never has to ask, not about this. She traces the shape of his ears with her thumbs, her gaze never wavering.

“I trust you.”


End file.
